“Alex and Daisy did not see you dance with the Duke of Caversham,” said Isobel.
Selina’s fingers fumbled the needle. She set her work down. It would not do to stab her finger. “What has the Duke of Caversham to do with anything?”
“Well, I cannot help but notice that he has never called here, though he returned to London some time ago. And the days of voting at Twynham begin tomorrow, and you have not spoken of the election once.”
“There is nothing to say about the Twynham election.” She lifted her eyes to Isobel’s, willing herself not to betray anything more. “Or about the Duke of Caversham.”
“I know what it is to be disappointed, Selina.” Isobel looked down at her hands, face wracked with an old pain. “I know what it is to expect a proposal that never arrives. So I am here for you, as long as you need me, and I will not leave you. Not until I am quite satisfied that you are happy again.”
Selina rose to her feet and went to put her arms around her sister as she sat at the writing desk. She held Isobel close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “My sweet girl,” she said. “Let me set your mind at rest. I have not been disappointed in Caversham. At least, not in the way you suppose.” She lifted Isobel’s chin, managing to find a little relish in the secret she was about to impart. “The duke has proposed. And I have turned him down.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. “Selina! You haven’t!”
“I most certainly have. Isobel, you and I are both extremely lucky. We do not need to marry to secure our future. We are the Balfour heiresses, after all! We have no need to cast ourselves at the feet of those who do not love us.”
Now Isobel was truly astonished. “Don’t tell me the duke doesn’t love you. Oh, Selina, how could he not?”
Selina stroked Isobel’s hair fondly. “I think he loved what I might do for him. He was very much in love with the power the Balfour name would add to his. No, I believe he was quite passionate about my prospects as a political hostess.”
Isobel gave an unladylike snort. “If that were the case, he has missed your finest qualities. You are the dearest and best person in the world.”
“And I know my own value.” Selina let Isobel go, pleased to see that her sister’s anxieties were eased. “So, I will not marry the duke, and I do not regret it. Write to Georgiana. Tell her you will gladly go to Whitby Manor.”
As Isobel busied herself with her letter, Selina left her needlework abandoned on the armchair and drifted across the room to the window.
There, looking out into her brother’s well-tended garden, she allowed herself a single ragged sigh.
“A toast!” called a red-faced young gentleman, a recent addition to the private club on St James’s Street, and as drunk on his own social advancement as he was on the wine. “A toast, to the Duke of Caversham and Sir Roderick March!”
“Hear, hear!” cried every voice in the room. Glasses were raised, spirits of various colours sloshed about and gulped down in greedy measures.
There was one voice missing from the general approbation, of course, and that was Lord Louis’s. Malcolm had not seen him at the club since the night he had discovered Sir Roderick’s misdeeds.
A cause of some regret, but not, alas, the one which troubled him most.
He accepted the praise with a gracious smile. Praise he had not technically earned, as the Twynham election would not conclude until later that day. But praise which was deserved, nonetheless, because the election would be his.
Once the pleasantries were accepted, he withdrew to his preferred chair in a quiet corner of the club. It had never been his usual haunt before, but he had developed a taste for solitude of late.
If he was cursed to be lonely, as Selina seemed to think, he might as well embrace it.
This time, however, his self-imposed isolation did not last long. The last man in the world he expected to see invited himself to sit down in the opposite chair.
Malcolm glared, but the Earl of Streatham was not as susceptible to ducal wrath as most. He cocked a boot up on his knee and raised his glass to Malcolm. “You certainly seem sure of success at Twynham, Caversham.”
“I am.”
George grinned. “I hope it was worth it.”
Malcolm cut his eyes to the man who might, in a different life, have been his brother-in-law. Lucky that he was not, because lately, whenever Malcolm saw his smug face, he had an irresistible desire to punch it. Not exactly the fraternal comradery Selina would have expected. “You are a newcomer to politics, Streatham. Perhaps, someday, you will understand the satisfaction of a game well played.”
“I am surprised you are not there to watch your victory unfold.”
Malcolm could no longer stand the sight of Sir Roderick. The thought of watching him revel in the fruits of his own corruption was distinctly unappealing. Malcolm had put an end to the bribery, true enough, but the rumours that the Duke of Caversham would generously reward Sir Roderick’s supporters still persisted. What a world they lived in, where the hope of a duke’s favour outweighed all the genius and passion a man like Forrester possessed. He understood Selina’s disgust.
And yet, power was power. And Roderick, though deeply disappointing, was still his man. “It hardly befits my position to go traipsing about over the country watching every petty by-election my men contest.”
“Lady Selina doesn’t think it beneath her, though by all accounts her man is
